Thinking About Feelings – Narrative Intention in Storytelling

Ich! Feelings.

I’m terrible at feelings.

I learned the word Alexithymia in 9th grade after a school counselor pinned that label to my chest and returned me to my homeroom.

Today, I’d probably be diagnosed with some form of autism, landing somewhere on the spectrum, but I’ve chronically had problems interpreting people’s feelings. It’s an issue that still plagues me today, in work and recreation, and translates into my writing.

“She’s not a Vulcan — she has feelings, right?” wrote an editor after receiving Diaspora for publication. “Rewrite it. Have the character feel something.”

But I’m like, what? I show her panicking. I show the character’s shock at seeing corpses littered with flowers … what do you want from me, man?!

Pshsh, I thought. I don’t care what my readers feel. They should just read my cool sci-fi story and enjoy it. Yeah, that’s a cool feeling that’ll get me nowhere.

Ultimately, the editor was right (pro tip: editors are always right): I wasn’t showing my protagonist’s feelings; I was telling the reader how she reacted. I concentrated on writing a good sci-fi, not necessarily how my reader should feel when reading my story. I didn’t think about how my protagonist's feelings directly translate into what my reader feels.

Maybe you’ve been there. Ever finish a story and feel... nothing? It might’ve had a great plot, sharp dialogue, and a killer twist — but if it didn’t make you feel something, it didn’t stick. That’s the power of narrative intention: knowing how you want your readers to feel and shaping the story to get them there.

Because of my emotional blindness, I struggle with this. I get caught up in the mechanics of writing a story — who does what, where, and when, how to write a story, its nuts and bolts — but I’ve learned the emotional core of a story matters just as much as the unfolding events or mechanical underpinnings. Whether you want readers to feel tension, sorrow, hope, or dread, you have to think about feelings from the start and portray them in your characters.

Tone and Atmosphere

A story's tone and atmosphere are closely related yet distinct elements that shape how readers emotionally experience the narrative.

Tone. The tone is the author’s attitude toward the subject matter, characters, or audience. It’s conveyed through word choice, sentence structure, dialogue, and description. Tone can be:

• Humorous – lighthearted, playful, or sarcastic

• Serious – solemn, thoughtful, or intense

• Dark – grim, unsettling, or ominous

• Hopeful – optimistic, inspiring, or warm

• Ironic – detached, wry, or contradictory

The tone is how the story “sounds” when read — like hearing a storyteller's voice in your head. Do you hear Bridget Jones reading to you from her diary? Or a whispy, feminine voice like at the beginning of the Lord of the Rings movies?

Atmosphere. The atmosphere is the emotional environment or mood of the story. Sensory details, setting, and pacing shape it. Think of it as the feeling the story evokes in the reader.

• Mysterious – foggy streets, dim lighting, whispers in the dark

• Romantic – candlelight, soft music, a warm summer breeze

• Tense – fast pacing, sharp dialogue, sudden noises

• Eerie – abandoned houses, unnatural silence, flickering lights

A story’s tone can influence its atmosphere, but they aren’t the same. For example:

• A horror story may have a serious tone but an eerie atmosphere.

• A romantic comedy may have a playful tone but a warm atmosphere.

Both tone and atmosphere combine to immerse the reader and shape their emotional response to the story. But how do you plan it, shooting for Edgar Allen Poe’s “unity of effect?”

What’s the Emotional Target?

Before I draft my outline, I’ve learned to ask myself: What do I want my reader to feel by the end? Some stories are meant to haunt, some to inspire, and some to entertain, but I think understanding this intention will shape everything — your tone, pacing, and even your word choices. These choices lend to a story’s atmosphere.

• Are you shooting for Horror? Create dread with slower pacing, ominous descriptions, and uncertain outcomes.

• Are you capitalizing on Sadness? Use small, intimate moments to show loss rather than outright stating it.

• Are you giving Hope? Give your characters struggles, but let them find a path forward.
  

• Are you crafting Suspense? Keep the stakes high, layer in unanswered questions, and use short, punchy sentences to build tension.

• Are you aiming for Whimsy? Play with language, exaggerate details, and invite the reader into a world where the unexpected feels natural.

• Are you evoking Nostalgia? Use rich sensory details, familiar settings, and a reflective tone to transport readers to a meaningful past.

Make Emotions Organic

Nobody likes being told how to feel.

“She was heartbroken” doesn’t hit as hard as “She traced the last text he sent her, the words already fading from the screen.”

• Show, don’t tell. Let emotions reveal themselves in actions and subtext.

• Leverage description. Use setting and sensory details to enhance mood (a sunlit café feels different from a cold, empty diner).

• Express emotion. (My failing in Diaspora) … Let characters naturally express emotions — through dialogue, body language, silence, or avoidance — to illustrate their changing emotional states. Don’t just tell the reader, “She screamed,” as I did. Instead, let her voice crack, her breath hitch, or her hands tremble as she clutches her chest — let fear ripple through her entire being.

Match Structure to Emotion

A story’s structure is a powerful way to shape the reader’s emotional experience. How you arrange sentences, paragraphs, and scenes can enhance tension, deepen sadness, or create a sense of inevitability.

• Fast, choppy structures. Creates urgency, anxiety, or excitement. Short sentences. Quick scene changes. Rapid dialogue exchanges. This is great for thrillers, action-packed moments, or high-stakes decision-making.

  • Example: “He ran. The door slammed. A shadow moved — closer, then up against the wall. His pulse hammered.”

• Slow, flowing structures. It feels contemplative, dreamy, or sorrowful, written with longer sentences and rich imagery in a rhythm miming deep thought or nostalgia.

  • Example: “The sky stretched endlessly, a watercolor of pastels bleeding into the horizon. She stood barefoot in the sand, tracing patterns with her toes, remembering.”

• Linear progressions (with a clear beginning, middle, and end) build momentum and resolution, which is ideal for growth, redemption, or triumph.

• Circular structures (ending where it began) reinforce loops like fate, nostalgia, or tragic inevitability. Perfect for stories about cycles, lessons unlearned, or deep reflection.

• Fragmented or nonlinear storytelling creates a sense of disorientation, loss, or mystery. Works well for stories about trauma, memory, or unreliable narrators.

Let Emotional Moments Breathe

Successful emotional storytelling isn’t just about conveying a character’s reaction. How long you let the moment linger is just as important.

If you’re writing a heartbreaking scene, don’t rush through it. Let the character pause, hesitate, reflect, use silence, use subtext. Let the reader sit in the moment's weight and stew in its juices.

Example:

Instead of: ”She read the letter and started crying."

How about: "Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the letter, the paper worn at the creases. She read each line twice and again as if the words might change. Her throat tightened. The ink blurred. She pressed the letter to her chest and closed her eyes."

Feel that? That hanging on, that waiting, that dramatic pause? By aligning structure with emotion, you guide the reader through the story and the experience of feeling it.

Finally, Trust the Reader

You don’t have to spell out everything. Trust that readers will fill in the gaps and bring their own emotions to the table. Sometimes, what’s left unsaid is more powerful than what’s on the page.

When done right, a story isn’t just words on a page but an experience. So next time you write, don’t just explain, “What happened?” Ask, “How will this make the reader feel?”

R

Structuring Short Stories: Finding the Beginning, Middle, and End in Limited Space

Sometimes, writing a short story can feel like fitting an elephant in a shoebox. The idea’s there, but how should you structure it in a way that makes sense, keeps the reader hooked, and delivers an impact — all in just a few thousand words? Where do you start?

Well, let’s begin by doing a bit of navel-gazing.

Who Are You?

Don’t worry; it’s a rhetorical question. I won’t go all woo-woo on you, but I want you to consider how you approach writing.

They say there are two types of writers: Pantsers and Plotters.

A Pantser writes by the “seat of their pants.” They’re unscripted. They’re in the moment. They write as an act of discovery to see what comes next. They don’t work off an outline — they let characters inform them where the story should go. Pantsers get lost in a story. Who knows where the wind will take them?

A Plotter, on the other hand, thinks about the story ahead of time. They detail the characters, the setting, and the scenes they want to capture. They might noodle over the central conflict and think about their themes. They might even map out the tension they want in the story, generating an outline of how it will generally progress before they start writing.

I’m not here to pass judgment on either approach. Do what works for you, boo.

However, I believe short stories are written with intention. Intention, by definition, requires forethought, which is some degree of planning to achieve an overall “unity of effect.”

A story's “unity of effect” is the determination of the effect you’d like to have on a reader and carrying that effect through all of the story’s elements. Its effect on the reader is essentially the purpose of the work. Edgar Allan Poe wrote about the unity of effect in his essay, 'The Philosophy of Composition'.

Achieving a “unity of effect” requires understanding a story’s themes, characters, setting, and scenes, the symbolism of objects and events, the tension flow, the conflict and resolution, the overall story arc, and its meaning.

In my mind, I cannot understand how someone arrives at a “unifying effect” by randomly, haphazardly, stumbling upon these details. Where the Plotter efficiently charts a course to their destination, the Pantster must hone these attributes from the raw marble, chiseling away during editing to refine these elements after the fact, wasting effort and risking tons of time reworking the piece to achieve the desired effect.

It’s my opinion that good short stories must be crafted with intention. I’d recommend anyone who writes short stories to spend some time writing down its bones. It doesn’t have to be elaborate (the source I cited even said there’s a middle ground, a Plantser), but you need some idea of where you’re going and what you’re trying to say.

Therefore, I submit that you must know and understand the gist of your short story before you begin writing it. You research the setting, the time period, write down the characters and their motivations — you outline the piece from beginning to end, and think about how the character’s actions address the central conflict and drive the story home. You wouldn’t build a house without a plan. I feel the same should be said about a short story.

The Beginning: Hook Fast, Set Up Quick

Short stories are short. They don’t have time for long-winded prologues or slow exposition. You need to drop readers into the story and immerse them fast. That doesn’t mean you have to start with a car crash or a gunshot (though it helps!), but you should introduce something intriguing immediately.

• Start in the middle. If you’ve followed my advice and outlined your story, you likely created a structured, linear outline of events. Look at the middle and begin with an action or an interesting situation. Think about how you can incorporate some of that backstory in dialogue. That lands the hook quickly and helps move the story along. Plus, it is an economic strategy that reduces the time it takes to tell the story.

• Conversely, when writing flash (stories < 1500 words), I generally consider writing “as close to the end as possible.” Where short stories are constrained, flash is unforgiving — every word counts — and you must dive into a specific moment, usually the story's climax.

• Establish your main character early. Who they are and what they want. Give your reader someone to hold on to. That reader connection is essential, whether empathy, sympathy, or recognizing themselves in your character — that relationship is the hook.

• What are the stakes? Remember stakes? Writing about the protagonist, who they are, and what they want is one thing, but what will happen if they don’t get it? Or do get it? The stakes are the emotional, physical, or existential risks that drive a story. Now’s the time to explore them.

• Where are we? Stories usually don’t take place in a vacuum. Give your reader enough context to ground the reader without overwhelming them.

Example:

Instead of describing a small town with five paragraphs (which might be your first natural inclination), start with, “Mira never meant to steal the cursed locket, but here she was, sprinting down Main Street with a banshee on her heels.”

The Middle: The Core Conflict

This is where things get tricky. If you’re like me, writing that hooky, opening scene is the easy part. Now you have to tell the story. You have room for side plots and deep character exploration in a novel. However, in a short story, every sentence must serve the central conflict, illustrate a theme, move the story along, or provide characterization. If it doesn’t do any of that, consider killing the sentence — it doesn’t need to be there.

• Keep the tension constantly moving up. This could be an external threat (a monster, a rival, a deadline), an internal struggle (fear, guilt, love), or an existential threat (an army or meteor is on its way, adding urgency). The last thing you want to do is successfully hook the reader with a bang only to allow the middle to wither on the vine, to become unpalatable, dry and dull. Keep pushing that tension by adding in layers of intrigue, emotion, and depth.

• Limit your cast. Too many characters will clutter the space. There’s too many cooks in the kitchen! This is a short story. Stick to one or two strong figures. If you have more than three, it’s probably too much.

• Introduce a choice. By the story’s midpoint, your character should be facing their main obstacle head-on. Remember what I’ve written about when it comes to agency. Your characters should be presented with a choice. If there’s no choice or obstacle, then it’s like they’re walking down a hallway with no challenges, doors, or barriers, eventually giving the protagonist what they want. It’s an outcome that feels unearned. We expect the protagonist to struggle, so now’s the time to show their struggle.

• Explore your themes. What’s your story about? How do these themes inform the central conflict? How do the choice, your character’s reactions to that choice, and the dialogue illustrate the themes? Now’s the time to start thinking about how you’re painting the story so it addresses the larger, intentional concepts you’re trying to explore. Are they shining through? Do they resonate? Are you layering in meaning?

• Linear storytelling is a choice, not a requirement. If you’ve got the gist of the story thought out, now you get to think critically about how you want to tell it. How can shuffling the scenes (like a deck of cards!) spice up its delivery and improve the unity of effect? I recently outlined and linearly wrote Somewhere Between, but its first draft ended up with a lot of “tell” and was a relatively dry read. I found that breaking up the story with non-linear progressions and foreshadowing improved its tension, created a more dynamic quality to the narrative, and, through cut-scenes, I could re-write those elements I “told” about to show the reader. I shuffled the deck, re-inserted the elements I wanted to capitalize on, and threw out a card to hone its message. Think about that.

Think of the middle as the story’s meat — no fluff, no garnish, just the core struggle that will drive the reader to the climax.

The End: Sticking the Landing and Making It Count

Short stories don’t always need a neat, crisp resolution but need a sense of completion.

• Resolve the conflict. Tie up the central conflict (even if it’s open-ended).

• Resolve the character arc. Your protagonist started the story wanting something; did they get it? Even if it’s not the outcome the character desired, it’s still an outcome.

• Allow it to linger like oak and honey on the tongue. Have you ever heard anybody say something like that during a wine tasting? You know, they sip the wine, slosh it around a bit, breathe in air from the corners of their mouths, and then spit the fluid into a spitoon to finally offer, “Ahhh, yes, hints of hickory,” or some equally creative and witty expression to convince you of their discriminating palate? Your short story should end like that. It should end, yet linger. It should say something, forcing the reader to think about that message. Always end on a strong image, twist, or emotional note that stays with the reader and continues the story off the page.

• Avoid over-explaining. Authors, sometimes, will insert exposition into their narrative or — Gods help us — write it into their character’s dialogues to help explain an ending to the reader. It’s like the author elbows the reader in the ribs and asks, “Hey! Did you get it? My spectacular ending?” Sometimes I imagine Velma Dinkly and Fred Jones summarizing the whole plot to Shaggy and Scooby Doo. These things are a bit on the nose and are unnecessary. Let the reader fill in the blanks. Allow what you present to be absorbed in the reader’s way, not your way. If you had a good “unity of effect,” that lingering aftertaste should be present regardless of your explanation.

• Ambiguity is your friend. Uncertainty taps into the imagination. It’s the horrors of our imagination that scare us most. Sometimes, a story can end effectively on an ambiguous note without a clear resolution. Think about how ambiguity might work in your favor.

Example:

Instead of wrapping everything in a bow for the reader, you could end with, “Mira turned the locket over in her palm. The banshee had stopped screaming. She glanced into the mirror. Maybe that was worse.”

Why Structure Matters

A well-structured short story sticks with readers long after they finish. It pulls them in, keeps them engaged, and leaves an impact — all without wasting words. Mastering structure makes you a better storyteller; it helps you achieve Poe’s “unity of effect.” So, start strong, tighten the middle, and leave them with a lingering aftertaste … something to remember.

R

What is a Short Story?

So, you want to write a short story? Great!

But let’s be honest: figuring out what makes a short story short (and still good) can be tricky. Is it just a tiny novel? A long anecdote? A flash fiction piece that went rogue?

If you’ve ever stared at a blank page, wondering how to cram plot, character, and emotion into a few thousand words, you’re not alone.

A short story isn’t just a compressed novel or an extended joke. A short story is a standalone narrative that delivers a punch. Short stories are the espresso shot of fiction: concentrated, bold, and powerful, but how do you craft one that works?

Let’s go into the weeds and get real, real basic.

What is a Story?

A story is the oldest and most powerful form of human communication. Long before written language, before books and scripts, stories were spoken, sung, danced, carved into stone, and painted on cave walls. They were how humans made sense of the world and passed down knowledge to connect generations through time.

• Telling a story originated as an oral tradition. In ancient cultures, stories were told around a fire, under the stars, in temples, and within marketplaces. The griots of West Africa, the skalds of the Norse, the bards of the Celts, and the shamans of indigenous tribes all used stories to preserve history, teach lessons, and entertain. When you convey a story — in oratory, reading aloud, improvising on the fly, or even role-playing — you participate in a timeless tradition unique to the human experience. These oral traditions emphasized rhythm, repetition, and symbolism, ensuring that stories could be remembered and retold accurately across centuries.

“In the beginning…”
“Once upon a time…”
“Long ago, there was a great hero…”

These phrases echo across countless cultures because they mark the start of something ancient and sacred — the passing of wisdom through words. Think about that every time you put your pen to paper.

• A story is structured for meaning. At its core, a story is a structured experience. While different cultures shape their stories in unique ways, most follow a fundamental pattern:

• A character (often a hero, trickster, or divine figure) encounters …

• A challenge or conflict (a journey, a trial, a transformation) that leads to …

• A resolution (a lesson, a victory, a warning)

This structure reappears everywhere, from myths and folktales to modern novels and films. The Hero’s Journey, famously outlined by Joseph Campbell, mirrors the epic tales of Gilgamesh, the Odyssey, and the Mahabharata — proving that storytelling traditions are deeply rooted in human psychology.

• A story is a way to teach. Stories were the first classrooms. Before laws were written and moral codes were codified, people learned right from wrong through fables, legends, and cautionary tales.

• Aesop’s fables taught morality through animals with human flaws.

• The Bhagavad Gita blended mythology with spiritual guidance.

• The Dreamtime stories of Australian Aboriginals explained the origins of the world.

• Religious tomes like the Bible, Quran, and Torah use parables and allegories to instill faith and ethical principles.

Stories didn’t just entertain. They preserved knowledge and related history, kept traditions alive, and warned of dangers so the next generation might benefit from collective, cultural wisdom.

• A story is a bridge between the human and the divine. Dude, epic! Ancient stories were about mortals-transcendent: anthropomorphized gods, spirits, and unseen forces shaping the world. Mythology wasn’t considered “fiction” in the way we think today. It was a sacred truth, a way to understand the mysteries of life and death.

• The Greeks explained the seasons through Persephone and Hades.

• The Norse prepared for Ragnarok, the great end of days.

• Native American tales spoke of the Great Spirit and creation.

These myths weren’t just “stories.” They guided living, parenting, understanding fate, wrestled with the enormousness of the universe, and grappled with the unknown.

• A story is both a mirror and a portal. A good story reflects who we are: our desires, struggles, and dreams. It captures an element of the human experience and transforms it into something timeless. Stories are portals, a magical way to step into the past, imagine the future, or walk in someone else’s shoes. Whether in the form of a myth, a novel, a film, or even a bedtime tale, stories transport us, reminding us that we are part of something much bigger than ourselves.

Stories are more than words on a page. It is an inheritance — a tool passed down to you from the ages — an offering, a thread woven through time. Whether carved into stone by ancient hands or typed into a glowing screen today, a story is humanity’s oldest way of saying:

“I was here. This is what I saw. Remember.”

So, What is a Short Story?

A short story is a brief, self-contained narrative that typically focuses on a single conflict, character arc, or theme, delivering a meaningful impact in a limited word count.

Unlike novels with room for multiple subplots and extensive character development, short stories zero in on a specific moment, decision, or transformation in a character’s life.

And before writing one, it might be easier to think about what a short story is not.

A short story is not just a condensed novel, a summary, or an anecdote. Instead, a short story is a structured, self-contained narrative with a clear purpose. Short stories convey meaning, a moral, or a reflection on an experience.

Here’s what doesn’t qualify as a short story:

1. A short story is NOT a novel or novella cut down to meet a desired word length. Where a novel has room for multiple subplots, deep world-building, and extensive character arcs, a short story doesn’t. Simply chopping down a novel’s word count won’t make it a short story. The pacing will be off, and it’ll feel rushed or incomplete.

2. A short story is NOT just a single scene or a vignette. A beautifully written slice-of-life moment can be evocative, but if it doesn’t have a beginning, middle, and end (or at least a narrative arc), it’s a vignette, not a short story. A proper short story presents a conflict, development, and resolution — even if that resolution is ambiguous and open-ended.

3. A short story is NOT a joke or anecdote. A joke or anecdote might tell an amusing or interesting event, but it's not a short story if there’s no more profound emotional impact, character change, or thematic weight. Think of it this way. Take the anecdote: “Once, I got locked in a bookstore overnight. It was fun.” Now, make it a short story. A character gets locked in a bookstore, discovers a hidden letter in an old book, and must make a choice that changes them forever. There’s an arc, a theme, a central conflict, a transformative event, a resolution.

4. A short story is NOT just a description. A story isn’t just words on a page; short stories are shared experiences. If your writing only describes a setting or a moment but doesn’t have characters, conflict, or movement, it’s an exercise in prose, not a short story.

5. A short story is NOT aimless. Even in literary fiction, where endings can be ambiguous, a short story still has a purpose. If a reader finishes your piece and asks, “So what was the point?” it might not be a fully realized short story.

6. A short story is NOT poetry. A short story is not poetry because it is fundamentally a structured narrative, while poetry is often focused on expression, rhythm, and imagery rather than plot and character development. While both forms use language artfully, they serve different purposes and follow different conventions. The prose in a short story might be described as poetic or lyrical, but it’s all about intent. Poetry is about capturing a moment, emotion, or idea — it doesn’t need a plot, characters, or a structured arc. A poem can be a fleeting impression, a reflection, or even a striking image. On the other hand, a short story tells a story: it has a beginning, middle, and end, often featuring a protagonist, conflict, and resolution. Even if the ending is ambiguous, there’s still a sense of movement or change.

A short story is a complete, compact narrative that delivers a strong impression, emotion, or transformation in a brief time. It’s not a snippet, scene, or just a collection of pretty words — it’s a journey in miniature.

Common Characteristics of a Short Story

• Length. A short story typically ranges from 1,000 to 5,000 words. Anything under 1,000 words is often called flash fiction.

• Focused Narrative. There’s one primary plot; no complex subplots, elaborate characterization, or sprawling world-building. Stop that.

• Character Limits and Development. A short story might only have one or two main characters, but they still undergo some form of change or revelation. Short stories don’t have the time to delve into a character like a novel might, so we often deal with narrative archetypes and stereotypes with short stories.

• Concise Writing. Every word must serve a purpose. There’s little room for lengthy exposition, so the story quickly jumps into action.

• A Strong Ending. The ending should impact the reader, whether it’s a twist, a resolution, or an open-ended conclusion.

Why Write Short Stories?

Short stories help train writers to be economical with words, develop strong character arcs quickly, and deliver memorable emotional punches in a short span. They’re also great for experimenting with style, genre, and voice without the commitment of a novel.

Think about it. Let’s say you commit yourself to improving your physical lifestyle, and the very next day, you go on a crash diet and try to run a marathon. A marathon is a novel in the writing world, but you try your hand at it because it’s what you think you should be doing. You’re not going to be successful, and you might be highly discouraged by the experience, enough to throw your pen across the room and vow never to write again.

A marathon takes training. It takes doing small things to amount to a larger goal. Training for a marathon is a test of physical, mental, and emotional endurance. Very few people can just wake up and decide to run one. The same is true for writing.

Writing short stories is pumping iron — it’s exercise — and it’s one of the best ways to sharpen your craft, explore different ideas and distinct genres, and build your confidence. Why?

1. You learn to write with precision. Short stories force you to be concise. Every word matters. There’s no room for filler, unnecessary exposition, or meandering subplots. You must quickly establish your character, introduce conflict, and build toward a resolution. This teaches you discipline in storytelling — a skill that will serve you well regardless of what form you’re writing.

2. You can experiment without a huge commitment. Don’t let NaNoWriMo convince you otherwise — a novel takes months (or years) to write. A short story? A few days or weeks. You can try new genres, voices, and structures without investing years into a single project. Want to see if you can pull off horror? Try a short ghost story. Thinking about writing sci-fi? Test a concept in a brief form first. Short stories let you fail fast and learn quickly. You’ll discover what works (and what doesn’t) without spending months on a dead-end novel.

3. You improve your ability to craft a complete narrative. One of the biggest struggles for new writers is finishing a story. A novel is a marathon, and it’s easy to lose steam. Short stories give you manageable timelines and structures. You learn how to begin a story with intrigue. You practice building a tight, engaging middle. You discover how to end with impact. Mastering this on a smaller scale will make tackling larger projects much easier.

4. You develop stronger characters, faster. With a limited word count, you can’t spend 30 pages explaining your character’s backstory. You must reveal who they are through specific actions, dialogue, and small, meaningful details. This makes you a better writer because it teaches you how to show, not tell.

5. You build a portfolio (and get published sooner!). Many literary magazines, websites, and anthologies actively seek short stories far more than they seek first-time novelists. Publishing short stories helps you build your author credentials and create an author’s platform; you can gain valuable experience working with editors; you can start connecting with readers to build an audience. Even if your long-term goal is to write novels, having short stories published will help you establish yourself as a writer.

6. You train yourself to write with purpose. In a novel, it’s easy to get lost in world-building and unnecessary tangents. A short story, however, must have a clear goal. Every scene, every line, and every detail must serve the story. Learning this will strengthen your storytelling instincts, making future novels tighter and more engaging.

I like to think of short stories as a writing gym: they strengthen your craft, teach you storytelling fundamentals, and give you the satisfaction of actually finishing projects. Whether you plan to write novels, scripts, or more short stories, starting with short fiction is one of the best ways to become a better writer, faster.

Things to Remember About a Short Story

1. Brevity is Key. Short stories typically range from 1,000 to 5,000 words, though you’ll find some stretching to 10,000. Every word has to earn its place. No long-winded exposition. No unnecessary backstory. If it doesn’t push the story forward, cut it.

2. One Core Conflict. Novels can juggle multiple subplots, but short stories thrive on simplicity. What’s the central issue your protagonist is facing? A decision, a realization, a life-altering moment? Keep it focused.

3. A Defined Beginning, Middle, and End. A short story doesn’t have the luxury of meandering. Establish the setting, introduce the character, and drop them into action quickly. The ending should be satisfying — a twist, a resolution, or an open-ended question that lingers with the reader. There’s a full story arc.

4. Character Depth in Minimal Time. You don’t need a full character biography. A few well-chosen details often make a character memorable. A nervous habit, a distinctive way of speaking, or a quirky behavior can bring them to life. Let the reader infer the rest. Archetypes and stereotypes are shortcuts.

5. A Lasting Impact. The best short stories leave readers thinking. Whether it’s an emotional gut punch, a haunting image, or a surprising turn of events, make sure your story resonates, vibrates — hums! — at the end. Short stories resonate with a reader with a more powerful message; it’s more than the sum of its parts.

Why Writing Short Stories Will Make You a Better Writer

Short stories teach discipline. You learn to craft tight dialogue, create tension fast, and master pacing. They’re also perfect for experimenting, a place to try new genres, unique structures, or unexpected narrative voices without committing to an entire novel. And hey, they’re easier to finish! A short story is a satisfying win if you’ve ever abandoned a novel halfway through, like I have. Six, seven, eight times? Sigh. They collect digital dust in my file system, and it saddens me. (Sniff, sniff, I’m all verklempt.)

So, er … what are you waiting for? Take an idea, trim the fat, and tell a story that lingers long after the last sentence.

R